


Pilikia

by aries_taurus



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: ABC Challenge, Angst, Challenge Response, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/aries_taurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unless a miracle happens, he’s going to die, alone, on the pavement of a dark alley. </p><p>He only has time for a single moment of sheer blinding fear before the world disintegrates into nothingness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilikia

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ABC challenge over at hawaii_50_hc over on LJ. I got the letter V. First prompt I got (Victuals) left me stumped. Saphirablue, being good as she is, offered me another: Ventilator. Then a fic appeared, using both. And to repay the kindness, I asked for the 3rd prompt, Vanish, and managed to include that as well.
> 
> This is kinda graphic but not that bad, no worse than the show. Believe you me; going through that sucks. I won't say more as I don't want to spoil myself!
> 
> Title means "Trouble"

Pilikia

 

 

Okay. Danny’s right.

He hates to admit it but Danny’s right; he’s a man of action and however nice this formal dinner is, he’s bored, itching to move, wanting nothing more than to yank out his bow tie and uniform off and change into something more comfortable.

He’d much rather be home, sitting on the beach with Danny, sipping on a beer or three instead of being here.

He also has to admit tough, it’s for a good cause and the food is _superb_.

“Enjoying the victuals, Steven?” Danny asks, his tone carrying just the right note of English posh to make Steve bite his lip not to laugh out loud. He didn’t know Danny could pull off the accent at all but he can; he really, really can.

“I am. Victuals for Veterans is a worthy cause, Daniel,” he says mildly.

“It is,” Danny agrees breezily. “You know me though. While I enjoy said victuals, I’m really a pizza and beer on the couch kind of guy,” he whispers a little conspiratorially. “And despite the polished, uniform-covered exterior, so are you.”

“Yeah. I agree with you there. But I don’t mind fancy once in a while. I actually enjoy it.”

“Hm. Right. Cath told be about those beef stew MRE cravings you have.”

Steve snorts and shakes his head and maybe, just maybe blushes. Great. His, uh…, (okay, he can say it in his head: girlfriend) is sharing stuff about him with his partner. He’s not quite sure he’s happy about that.

“Well at least I don’t have a pizza fetish,” he fires back.

Danny laughs at that but the banter stops there as the waiter deposits desert in front of them. The description made by the maître de ceremony says it’s rhubarb terrine with a cream of some sort of spice Steve’s never heard of but that‘s nothing new tonight and thus far, he’s loved it all so he simply digs in.

He’s not disappointed. The thing is wonderful. Sweet, tart, spicy and smooth. 

He makes a satisfied sound and shares a look with Danny, who apparently wholeheartedly agrees with his opinion of the taste if the obscene sounds he’s making are any indication.

He digs into the terrine again and swirls his fork into the sauce before putting it in his mouth. He takes a couple chews before the taste hits him and he has to force himself to swallow hard instead of spitting it out right onto his plate. He drops his fork, the clatter it makes landing on his plate and tumbling against his water glass loud in his ears.  

He closes his eyes, willing the memory away.

“Steve? You okay?”

He nods, eyes closed. He can’t speak, not yet. He’s working too hard on controlling the assault of images that came with the taste of… The only word he has in his head is _Berberé_. Spices.

He grabs his water and chugs it, washing out the taste but the memories stay bright in his mind; hot sun, dry, burning sand and blood, enough to turn it to mud underfoot. A tent, shade, sharing scalding mint tea and Makrout with a tribal leader at the point of a sword still wet with gore.

He sniffs and tenses, forcing the memories back.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you? You look like you just saw a ghost! You’re white as a sheet, babe…” Danny whispers.

“I’m fine. I just need some air,” he answers, standing and dropping his napkin on his chair.

“Are you--”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he hisses, cutting Danny off. “I’ll be back in time for the governor’s speech,” he adds quietly, tugging on his shirt collar. He walks out of the ballroom, trying not to run. He usually doesn’t mind the mess whites but all of a sudden, it’s like he can’t breathe underneath the cummerbund and bowtie.

He grabs a waiter as he’s about to go in the dining room and asks where there restrooms are. He gets pointed towards a hall to the left. He nods and jogs there, breathing hard.

Never. This has never happened to him.

He shoves the restroom door open and walks to one of the sinks, turning on the cold water. He splashes his face a few times before he grabs the edge of the counter with both hands, letting his head fall forward.

He breathes deeply, exhaling slowly, willing himself to calm down.

He forces himself to smell the faint hint of chlorine in the air, not the blood over mint and cinnamon floating around in his head.

He’s fine.

He’s here, not _there_.

It’s just _one_ flashback.

It doesn’t mean anything.

He’s okay.

He’s fine.

He stays like this for a long ten minutes, just breathing, calming himself. It’s just a memory. He’s safe. Nothing to worry about. The feeling in his throat like he can’t breathe is just stress. It’ll pass.

Only it doesn’t, really.

Thing is, he feels calm now but his heart’s still racing and he feels lightheaded and maybe a little nauseous.  He pushes off the sink and he stumbles, instantly dizzy. His throat feels thick, the air in the room suddenly hot and oppressive. He clears his throat and winces as a lightning bolt of pain sears through his head. He clears his throat again, tugging on his bowtie with one hand, rubbing his forehead with the other. He can’t breathe in here.

He swallows and coughs, feeling like he can’t really get any air, body feeling heavy, dragging him down. He gives his tie one last tug and it comes undone, flopping heedlessly to the floor. He clears his throat again and coughs harshly before swallowing painfully, feeling like there are shards of broken glass in his throat. He scrapes his teeth along his tongue, feeling like there’s something stuck to it, like the skin of a chili or a piece of popcorn or maybe sand. He rubs it against the roof of his mouth and he wonders if the prickling itch there has anything to do with the spices in the main course or if it’s the rhubarb in the dessert or if it’s all in his head, like the phantom grit in his throat.

He clears his throat again, blinking as his vision fuzzes a bit. He wants to lie down, badly.

His heart gives a strange lurch and he’s suddenly very, very hot and very lightheaded. He can’t breathe in here. He needs fresh air. Outside. Yeah. That’s what he needs.

He staggers out of the bathroom and right into a waiter. He grabs his arm and holds on, trying not to fall. His arms weigh a ton and it’s like his legs can’t quite carry him.

“Outside… I…”

“End of the hall, sir.”

He nods and doesn’t notice how the waiter shrugs off his grip in disgust. He doesn’t hear the scathing comment about drunken Navy officers either.  He just staggers off to the back exit and crashes through the door and into the warm night.

He draws in a gasping breath, throwing his head back to get in as much air as he can. He coughs and clears his throat again and again but something’s wrong. He’s dizzy, lightheaded, like he’s about to pass out.

He huffs out a shaky breath, rubbing his face.

It’s just a panic attack. He’s fine. It’ll pass.

He stumbles to the wall and leans his back against it, letting himself slide to the ground in a heap as his legs turn to jelly, unable to hold his weight.

He leans forward, tries to get his head between his knees and breathes out a long exhales but it’s like the sand in his throat is really there, scraping harshly as he sucks in air that feels too thin. He coughs hard, can’t seem to stop and that’s when he feels something different, frightening.

It’s like someone’s slipped a rope around his windpipe and is slowly choking him with it, tighter and tighter. Somehow, he suddenly gets it, understands what’s going on, how screwed he is.

This isn’t a flashback; he isn’t having a panic attack. It’s much, much worse. He just can’t understand _how_ this happened, or why.

He’s not allergic to anything, dammit, so this can’t be happening. Can it?

His next exhale is barely a whistle of air and he tries hard not to panic. He needs to find help, _now_. If only he could get up but he can’t really feel his legs, or his hands for that matter.

He throws his head back and tries to breathe but the air’s not really getting through and it’s scaring him how fast he’s getting worse. He doesn’t have the breath to scream for help, his tongue too big for him to even try and speak.

Phone. He needs his phone.

Numb fingers fumble in his pocket but he can’t grab it, can’t feel it. Dark motes are crowding his vision when he somehow manages to get the phone out of his pocket but it slips from his hand to clatter on the asphalt. He can’t see it, can’t open his eyes.

He wants to yell for help but only a choked whistle of air makes it through.

He suddenly realizes it’s because his face is swelling as fast as his airway and he’s past getting help for himself and he’s alone and unless a miracle happens, he’s going to die, alone, on the pavement of a dark alley.

He only has time for a single moment of sheer blinding fear before the world disintegrates into nothingness.

 

\---

Danny huffs and checks his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. The Governor’s speech started two minutes ago and Steve isn’t back yet.  He’s been gone over ten.

He draws in a breath and stands as discreetly as he can but he still feels the Governor’s eyes on him as he leaves the room.  He scans the entire lobby but his partner’s gone, vanished into thin air.

He’s a bit worried, mainly because of Steve’s sudden exit. The man looked positively rattled, like he’d seen a ghost or an apparition or something. Steve doesn’t get rattled easily, if at all and almost fifteen minutes is way too long a bathroom break for a Navy freak like McGarrett. Still that’s where he heads off first.

“Steve?” he calls as he pushes the door in but the restroom’s empty. He sighs and shakes his head. Where the hell has the stupid SEAL disappeared to?

He turns to leave but he pauses, spotting a strip of black fabric on the floor. He rolls his eyes as he shoves his hand in his pocket to retrieve the latex gloves he always, _always_ has on him since he’s been with Five-0, because that’s his life now; digging through potential crime scenes at black tie affairs.  

He squats and picks up the strip of fabric and frowns. How the hell’s he supposed to know if it’s Steve’s?

He shakes his head. Of course it’s Steve’s. And of course, he’s in trouble. Seriously. He knows this just because _this is his life now_.

He wraps the tie in the glove and shoves it in his pocket before he stands and walks out of the restroom, snagging a passing waiter.

“Hey, you see a man in a Navy uniform, tall, brown hair…”

“Yeah. Dude hightailed it outside. Back there. Looked drunk off his ass.”

Danny gives him a frowning look. “Drunk?”

“Yeah. Couldn't walk straight. My bet? You’ll find him out by the dumpsters, y’know...”

A wave of unease tightened Danny’s stomach and he makes a decision, as he bolts towards the door. He turns to the waiter and shouts over his shoulder.

“Call an ambulance!”

“What, why?”

“Just do it!”

He bursts through the door and—

“Steve!”

He instantly spots the form heaped by the wall a few feet left of the exit and he thanks god he’s already called for a bus.

It’s too dark to really see but one thing he’s sure as he drops to his knees is that his partner’s unconscious. As to why, he has no clue.

“Steve? Hey Steve! Steven! Hey, c’mon, babe, what’s going on with you, huh?” he asks as he grabs his partner’s jacket and hauls, laying him flat, careful not to bump his head. His worry turns to fear when the light from the open door hits Steve’s face; his features are barely recognizable, swollen and distorted, his lips blue.

“Shit! This can’t be happening!” he shouts when he pushes his fingers onto the distended flesh of Steve’s neck. He can’t find a pulse and his chest isn’t moving. Christ.

“HEY! I NEED SOME HELP OVER HERE!” he screams at the tops of his lungs as he fists his hands into his partner’s shirt and _yanks_ , almost smiling when the buttons pop and fly everywhere. He grabs the undershirt next and pulls as hard as he can but the seam won’t tear without a blade and he’s got no time.

Holy _Fuck._

He moves close to Steve’s head and leans down, tilting his partner’s head back and pinching his nose.

“God, I hope this works so I can use this against you,” he mutters before he presses his lips to Steve’s and blows.

“Fuck!”

Steve’s chest stays chillingly still. Nothing’s getting through. He positions Steve’s head carefully once more and tries again, with no success.

“This isn’t happening,” he says. “HELP! I NEED HELP!” he shouts, loud as he can before he lays his ear on his partner’s unmoving chest. He doesn’t hear or feel anything. Unwanted tears and grief flood him but he can’t do this now. Steve can’t be dead, can’t die. He won’t let him.

 “HEEEELP!” he hollers.

“What is it man?”

“He’s not breathing. I think he had an allergic reaction. Ambulance is coming but I need an Epi-pen. Find me one, quick!” he orders, not even looking up to see who’s there. He’s hoping beyond hope, praying, really, someone in the event crowd has one. Has to be.

Because this can’t _happen_.

“Shit, I thought the dude was drunk, man. I didn’t know. He didn’t say anything. He…” another voice pleads, close by.

“Shut up and make sure the ambulance gets here,” Danny snaps as he finds his mark and begins pumping Steve’s chest, squeezing his heart, making it beat, making Steve _not dead_. He does fifteen compressions and tries rescue breathing again, cursing when it fails just like the first time.

“I got one! I got an Epi-pen!” Another voice. He doesn’t care who.

Danny doesn’t speak, doesn’t waste time he doesn’t have with word. He just extends his hand and closes it around the cigar-sized object. He twists off the yellow cap and throws the plastic cover behind him as hard as he can, wastes no time in jabbing the needle into the side of Steve’s thigh, forcing himself to count to a slow ten before pulling the needle out and massaging the injection site. He goes right back to CPR, ignoring the Governor he can now hear speaking close by, ignores his words, ignores everything but the man on the ground before him.

“Where’s that ambulance!” he yells as he presses down over and over onto Steve’s chest. He winces when he feels something crack under his hands but he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

It’s been 30 seconds since the shot so he leans down and presses his ear to Steve’s chest again and he almost cries with relief as he hears a faint beat. He slides over to his partner’s head and tries to breathe air into his still lungs again. He thinks maybe this time some of it makes it through but he can’t tell for sure and he wants to scream.

He hears the sirens and the clattering of a gurney but he can’t stop trying, not until a strong hand grips his shoulder and pulls him off. He wants to fight, to keep working because he can’t give up but he knows the EMTs are Steve’s best chance so he moves back, makes himself let go.

The EMT asks him what happened as he works and Danny tells him and the words coming out of his own mouth make him sick. He hears himself say he found Steve unconscious, in full arrest, doesn’t know how long ago but he figures he’s been doing CPR for about six minutes and gave Steve the shot of epi about three ago, that he got a weak pulse but he’s still not breathing, doesn’t know what he’s allergic to, doesn’t know how long it’s been since exposure although he suspects, doesn’t know how long Steve was without oxygen.

“Nothing’s getting through. I can’t get the ET tube through. We need to do a cric.”

“Figured,” the second man answers, swiping something orange over Steve’s neck and Danny doesn’t understand.

“A what?” Danny has to ask when he sees the older EMT pull out a scalpel. “What are you doing?” he practically yells. Fear does that to him. Among other things.

“Cricothyroidotomy. Emergency tracheotomy. Otherwise, he’ll die before we get him to HMC,” the man answers as he presses the blade to Steve’s swollen throat and Danny has to look away.

“Got it.”

“Bag em’. Let’s go. Make way people!”

Danny doesn’t understand. He’s left standing there, alone in a sea of people and he can only watch the flashing lights fade away, unwanted, unshed tears shining in his eyes.

\---

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

Danny rubs his face with trembling hands and shakes his head, swallowing hard. He’s tired, exhausted to the point of collapse, or very close to it.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

The sound is going to drive him mad, he’s sure. Maybe it has something to do with the four hours of sleep he’s had in the past three days.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

He can’t really complain. After all, the stupid ventilator is the only thing keeping his partner alive. Alive for what? He doesn’t know. They told him the EEG was encouraging but brain damage is more than likely. He knows what prolonged oxygen deprivation can do. He’s seen it enough times. If—when Steve wakes up…

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

There might be nothing left.

He has to swallow hard at the thought; it makes him want to hurl, to hit something, to cry, to scream. He doesn’t know which first.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

He stares at the neat row of stitches on Steve’s throat, at the tube twisting his lips that allows the infernal machine to feed air to his lungs and he wants to tear it out. If only because he wants Steve to open his eyes and breathe on his own and come _back_.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

It took three shots of epinephrine and countless other drugs to bring the swelling down enough so they could properly intubate him, Danny’s been told. He’s lucky to be alive at all.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click_

It doesn’t feel like enough.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

It’s been three days. Technically, McGarrett’s in a coma. Danny thinks it’s because no one wants to face reality; that no one wants to face the fact that his partner was without oxygen for a lot longer than they think, that he’ll never wake up because-

He shakes his head, refuses to think it. So he stays there, watching, waiting. Hoping.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click._

He feels the soft hand on his shoulder and he smiles.

“Hey,” he greets, not taking his eyes off the mechanical rise and fall of Steve’s chest.

“Hey. Any change?”

“No.”

“Right.”

Catherine falls silent and sits next to him, laying her head on his shoulder. Not saying anything. Neither of them can think it, let alone voice it.

They stay there a while, Danny doesn’t know how long, until a slight noise pulls him from his stupor.

_Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss Click. Hisssssss click. Click Click. Hisssssss. CLICK. Hisssssss Click. Click. Click Hisssssss.._

Danny tenses, looks up to the monitors and… There. The pattern’s changed.

He doesn’t even have time to press the call button before a nurse walks in and he and Cath both back out of the way but not out of the room. It takes a second before she turns to them, a huge smile on her face.

“He’s fighting the vent. He’s waking up.”

All he can do this time is close his eyes and sag against Catherine as she does the same. They share a few tears, laugh a little and make some calls. They know it might still not be all good news, but they’re taking it for now.

 

\--

It takes another day for Steve to emerge completely but once he does, it’s clear he’s all there. Danny can’t thank the stars enough for that.

Once the neurologist is done with the testing, he walks back into his partner’s room with a smile on his face.

“So, remind me to never let you go to the little boy’s room alone ever again, all right?” he says as a greeting. It’s the first time they have a chance to talk ever since Steve woke up, the first time he’s totally coherent and completely with it.

“Cath wants to know… who’s the better kisser. I have no…. clue what she’s talking about.  Said I should…. ask you. Care to… enlighten me?” Steve’s speech is broken and raw, his voice still roughened by three long days of having a tube down his throat and a blade through it. Danny shudders at the memory. It must hurt like hell to talk, Danny thinks.

He chuckles as he sits by the bed, though. “She’s talking about the most horrific memory of my entire existence. Me having to do CPR on you, my friend.”

“You… You-- ” Steve stops speaking abruptly and Danny doesn’t know if it’s because he’s embarrassed, shocked or one of a million other things.

“Yeah,” he says. There’s no need to go into detail.

Steve nods, absorbs the information for a bit before he takes a breath and speaks.

“You saved… my life.” He says it with feeling and Danny can decipher the million emotions and unsaid words behind it all just because they know each other so well.

“Please, please, never make me do that again, all right?”

There’s a long, pregnant silence before Steve clears his throat and speaks again.

“All I remember is… The taste of those spices. Brought back some… memories.”

“I figured… Something was wrong and… when I couldn’t find you…”

“By the time I realized…  what was… happening, it was too… late. I couldn’t…”

“You weren’t breathing when I got there. No pulse. You were…” Danny can’t make himself say it.

“Dead.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not. Because of you.”

Danny doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods.

“Thank you.”

“Not welcome.”

“What?”

“You said thank you. I said you’re not welcome. Etiquette says when someone says thank you, if you don’t mind providing the same, you say ‘You’re welcome,’ to give the permission for the person to reiterate, to ask for more of the same as in you’re welcome to more. Ergo, you are NOT welcome, as I do not wish to provide this service again.”

He sees Steve mouth ‘ergo’ silently, frowning at him. “So… in the event I find myself in need of resuscitation… in the future, I can’t count on you. That’s what you’re saying?”

“No! I’m saying I do not want to do this, ever again. But I will make every effort possible to keep you alive, even doing this again.”

“So. You are willing to do it again. Ergo. I am welcome.”

“You’re welcome?”

“Exactly.”

“What? No! I’m not willing! I will do it if I have to! Not because I want to.”

“But you’d still do it. So you are willing.”

“If I had to yes! But not if I had a choice!”

“And in what situation would you not choose to do it?”

“If you didn’t need me to do it, for example or if there was someone else to do it.”

“But you’d be willing if there was no choice.”

“I would.”

“So what you’re saying is: you’re welcome, because if you had no choice you’d do it because you chose not to let me die, because if you have the choice to not do it it’s because I don’t need it from you.”

“Yes! No! I… I’m… I don’t… I… NO! Maybe.” In the end, he just sighs and shakes his head, laughing.

“Fine. You’re welcome.”

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I know this was more Hurt than Comfort but hey, that's how I roll ;) I'm glad I managed to make the deadline despite the utter crazy of my life. So, after sneaking this in, I'm back on puppy watch. Yup. I should have a brand new litter by morning.
> 
> Now, we don't know what Steve is allergic to. Testing wil reveal the answer in a few weeks. Sorry folks... Now I guess I need a sequel ;)


End file.
